“What was that?” I asked.
“Oh, that if it hadn’t been for that bullet and brass cartridge-case, backed up by the thick leather belt, that Boer’s bullet would have bored—now, now, you were going to laugh,” he cried.
“That I wasn’t,” I said wonderingly. “What is there to laugh at?”
“Oh, you thought I was making a pun: bored a hole right through me.”
“Rubbish!” I said. “Just as if I should have thought so lightly about so terribly dangerous an injury.”
“Good boy!” he cried merrily. “I like that. I see you’ve been very nicely brought up. That must be due to your aunt—aunt—aunt— What’s her name?”
“Never mind,” I said shortly; “but if you can laugh and joke like that there’s no need for me to feel anxious about your hurt.”
“Not a bit, Solomon,” he cried merrily. “There you go again, trying to make puns—solemn un—eh? I say, though, you do look solemn this morning, Val. I know: want your breakfast—eh!”
“Had it,” I said, smiling now.
“I do, my young recruit. I’m longing for a cup of hot coffee or tea. But I say, Val, my lad,” he continued, seriously now, “I haven’t felt in a very laughing humour while I lay awake part of the night.”